


Just Call Out My Name

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, His Last Vow Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1977519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He always wakes seconds before death can seize him and pull him down into eternal night. He shoots up from wherever he's lying, glazed eyes staring off into nothing as he rubs at the phantom wound. Only then does he realise that it was just a dream, one he's had dozens of times before. Every time, he chokes out a sob that speaks to devastating relief.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written for the h/c bingo challenge.  Prompt: Nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Call Out My Name

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hurt/comfort bingo challenge. Prompt: Nightmares.
> 
>  
> 
> Much love and gratitude go to my betas/cheerleaders prettybirdy979, batik and hiddenlacuna. They were all instrumental in helping me whip this into shape before posting. You are all fantastic. Thanks, dears!
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings & triggers:** Flashback of gunshot injury, but no more graphic than what's normally portrayed on the show.

 

 

 

As soon as it starts, he knows what’s going to transpire, from beginning to end.  That should be a clue right there that it isn’t real.  And yet every time, he swears that it’s actually happening.  It certainly _feels_ real, in every sense of the word.  Using the logic so often prevalent in these situations, he believes himself caught in a special circle of hell where he is doomed to repeat his misery over and over again. 

 

 

 

Just like the urban myth, he always wakes seconds before death can seize him and pull him down into eternal night.  He shoots up from wherever he’s lying, glazed eyes staring off into nothing as he rubs at the phantom wound.  Only then does he realise that it was just a dream, one he’s had dozens of times before.  Every time, he chokes out a sob that speaks to devastating relief.  Sometimes actual tears pour down his cheeks, although that happens less often now that — well, now that he no longer has to bear the burden alone.

 

 

 

It’s disconcerting, in hindsight, how vivid the scenario is, how reminiscent of the actual event.  Once started, the inexorable journey down the preordained path never falters until its inevitable climax.  All sound fades as he stares down the barrel of the gun.  He feels his mouth open, but the words he remembers saying are muted and unintelligible.  It doesn’t matter anyway, since what he says never prevents what happens next. 

 

 

 

The tang of gunpowder assaults his senses before he even feels the impact.  The incongruity of that smell interspersed with a sweeter fragrance that doesn’t _fit_ adds to his confusion and makes his head spin.  Coppery liquid floods his mouth as he bites down on his tongue.  Only then does the pain explode through his entire being, obliterating everything except for the need to stay alive for as long as he can. 

 

 

 

He’s surrounded by the battlefield on a daily basis; it’s his _job_ to place himself in dangerous situations.He’s seen people shot and killed right in front of him on more than one occasion, but never experienced it himself.  It’s much worse than he had ever imagined.  Worse than the appendicitis he had when he was 11 years old, worse than the extraction of his wisdom teeth, even worse than when he broke his collarbone during his first year at uni.  Nothing could have prepared him for this.

 

 

 

His mind scrambles for something - _anything -_ to keep him tethered to his mortal shell. 

 

 

 

 

His fingernails dig into his palms as he tries to control the shock and pain.  He just about gives it up as a bad job when gentle fingers wrap themselves around his hand.  Soothing words delivered in a desperate yet competent voice envelop him in a surreal calm as his hand falls open to meet the other one, steady and sure.  That hand never leaves his while the medics work on him to stabilise the bleeding.  He tries to get his saviour’s attention, but the only thing he can push past his lips is a slurred, “Mmm… Muh  -  ” before the pain slams back into him with a vengeance, rendering him once more incoherent.

 

 

 

He needs something with which to anchor himself, so he struggles to calm down and clear his mind.  He remembers his first love: softness under his fingers, sloppy kisses, the unspoken assurance of safety, loyalty and friendship — the memory repressed for so many years because it also brings back the heart-shattering pain of his first loss.

 

 

_Redbeard._  

 

 

 

It’s enough to let him hold on for a few more moments, but eventually he succumbs to all the trauma his body has sustained as everything fades to black.

 

 

 

 

The only thing that mitigates his relief upon waking is the fear that, next time, the dream won’t end before he flatlines.  Although there would be a blessing hidden even in _that_ worst-case scenario — he would be able to relive the memory of his _second_ love infusing him with determination, even if it would only be to escort him into the afterlife instead of pulling him from the brink. 

 

 

His second love, who is there beside him now with a warm hand on his arm as he jerks upright and gasps out a strangled,  “ _John.”_

 

 

Sherlock blinks as the darkness of their bedroom slowly fades to reveal familiar shapes and shadows.  John’s hand rubs his arm in a soothing gesture. 

 

 

“All right?” John’s voice, hoarse with sleep and concern, murmurs next to his ear.  The soft puff of breath sends shivers down Sherlock’s spine.  He instinctively places his hand next to his heart, right over the scar left by the bullet that had very nearly taken his life nine months ago. 

 

 

Sherlock exhales shakily and leans into John’s embrace.  He can’t say anything through his clogged throat, so he settles for a nod against his partner’s shoulder.  John’s grip tightens, and he places a soft kiss at Sherlock’s temple.

 

 

After a few silent moments, when his heart rate slows and his muscles relax, Sherlock clears his throat and says, “This one wasn’t as bad.”  They both know it for a lie, but John is smart enough not to call him on it.  At least the nightmares are decreasing in frequency, if not in intensity; two weeks have gone by since the last one.  The passage of time is a contributing factor, of course. But there’s no denying that the presence of someone who loves him without condition, who offers up comfort and safety without limits, goes a long way towards both Sherlock’s physical and emotional recovery. 

 

 

 

The baby monitor on the bedside table squawks with unintelligible babbling, forcing Sherlock and John into awareness of their surroundings.  The final vestiges of the nightmare release their hold, the images fading like a will-o’-the-wisp.  John tightens his grip and presses a final kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.  He brushes the damp curls out of Sherlock eyes and gives him a small smile.

 

 

“The joys of shared custody, eh?” John jokes, soft cobalt eyes sparkling with warmth.  “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”

 

 

Sherlock huffs, grateful for the diversion into less sombre territory.  He burrows his face into John’s neck.  “You said ‘duty’,” he mumbles.

 

 

John snorts.  “Yeah, probably quite literally.  I know you were on nappy duty all day yesterday while I was at work, so I’ll take this turn.”

 

 

Sherlock smiles through a yawn.  “You owe me several turns then, Dr Watson.”

 

 

John swats his arm before dipping his head for a lingering kiss that has just enough heat behind it to serve as a promise of things to come.  How soon that promise will be delivered depends entirely on little Alice’s pleasure.

 

 

This is the way of it now.  Nightmare, comfort, then seamless segue into the routines of daily life.  A life that includes, against all expectation, being a part-time step-parent to a 5-month-old infant.

 

 

 

John leaves to attend to his daughter.  Sherlock closes his eyes and burrows further under the covers, bringing the duvet up to his chin.  He sighs, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  Something like contentment settles over him as he listens to his partner coo and Alice respond with baby giggles.

 

 

If being shot by Mary Watson had been the defining moment that determined what his life is right now, he will gladly endure years of nightly nightmares just to ensure that this remains his reality.  John in Baker Street.  John in his bed.  John and Alice in his heart.

 

 

World without end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hugs and sloppy kisses to hiddenlacuna; when I was struggling between being too subtle and being too obvious, they pretty much word-for-word provided me with the section describing Sherlock's 'first love'. Once again, thank you!


End file.
